


You're like my coffee, you keep me up all night

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Friends With Benefits, God save us all, Hand & Finger Kink, Lingerie, M/M, Please do read the tags, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Sex, Smut, Someone stop me, Terrible puns and pick up lines, another coffee shop AU, fuck buddies, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The handwriting on the receipt is quick and quirky and he imagines those deft fingers wrapped around the sharpie, wrapped around - <em>fucking concentrate</em><br/>A capital R. And next to that, a phone number. With no second thoughts, he prepares himself to toss the receipt into the nearest recycle bin. Somehow, -later Enjolras will blame it all on the rain and on the distraction of the carols in his spinning head- it ends up in his pocket.<br/><em>You giving me your number, now that’s a fair trade.</em></p><p>The fucking barista.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this might or might not be horribly OOC because horny Enjolras who jumps on people idk anymore, but I had this huge urge to write it with him not even knowing Grantaire's name, and God knows I've written more Coffee Shop AUs in the past and I'm really sorry for never being able to stop because it's Christmas and I just have to Christmassify everything, but I guess this is somewhat different because there isn't all the sugary Christmas blend coffee fluff, it's mostly a sex-and-friends-with-benefits-with-a-stranger AU so please please PLEASE be prepared for lots of sex in the following chapters and I really hope this somehow makes some sense, if the whole thing is ridiculous please tell me your opinions so that I can work it out because I've never written a friends with benefits AU in the past? Please and thank you and thank you again for reading!  
> Feedback is more than welcome!

_Ho bloody ho._

He should have known. He should have known from the very beginning that he would eventually succumb, from the moment he saw Santa Claus with the black roots on his hair outside that toy shop. He had always hated Christmas, not only for the ridiculous tunes that got stuck in his head –and heaven forbid, in Courfeyrac’s-, not only for the pretentious ways the church used the celebration to impose itself even further in people’s lives and minds, but especially of the way everything, was a part of a mere consumerist trick, wrapped up in garish colors and expensive ribbons. Everything had to be sold or bought, even children’s innocent happiness which maybe wasn’t so innocent after all. Enjolras cringes when he thinks of workers’ exploitation when it came to the making of all these toys that white, unaware children were bombarded with every holiday season, he dreads to think of all the money that could have fed families or given children vaccinations, now spent for the most pointless of reasons.

Yet Enjolras should have known from the moment he finds himself out in the busy streets of the town center after a meeting, even though it’s cold as balls, bursting in and out of shops, the flowery interior deodorants of which make him sick in the stomach. He’s supposed to be finding gifts for his friends because they’ll sure as hell get him something for Christmas and he really cares for them not to at least do the same. He dreads shopping with every fiber of his being, therefore he’s chosen to finish that chore several days before Christmas, in order to avoid the overly crowded streets later. How wrong he is! The streets and shops are asphyxiating with people, bundled up in several layers of clothes, clashing colors and  _God it is the tacky sweater time of the year, he had almost forgotten._ Decorations are everywhere, Christmas lights on the streets and the trees and the shops, annoying carols in every shop he enters and on top of all it has started to fucking rain. To rain so much he will probably drown in some puddle of water, and yet people still look all cheerful, protecting their shopping bags more than they do themselves. How that can be possible, it is beyond Enjolras to understand.

He has just managed to find some books for Combeferre, Joly and Feuilly –and really spent most of the evening in the bookstore, as it’s been an oasis in the middle of the shopping center- when he decides it is too much for him to deal with and he should probably get going. He has loads of work to finish, four assignments due to Monday were more than enough already, not to mention the article on the homeless for their political blog and the activist work they’re doing for Christmas with his group of loyal friends, most of which he should plan himself with Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s help.

Yet when he bursts out of the bookshop, his head buzzing slightly from the noise of the crowd and the catchy tunes all around, only to realize that he doesn’t have an umbrella and that there is an actual storm going on outside, he feels obliged to admit that there’s no way he is returning home right now, not until the rain paces down a bit, or else he’ll catch pneumonia and in that case, Joly’s fretting over him will be even more fearsome than actually staying behind on his work.

It is then that he notices the small chain coffee shop just across the street, the same coffee shop he’ll never even bother casting a second glance upon every time he passes outside. Enjolras is a caffeine addict, a lost case at that, really, and one knows how to protect themselves should they be found around him after some intense consuming of several cups (dozens of them). However Enjolras’ first choice will always be the small fair trade organic coffee shop just a couple of blocks from there. As much as he wants a hot beverage right now, to keep him up in order to continue his work until probably the next morning when he’ll have to go to his classes, he wouldn’t ever dare to enter the pretentious heaven of charm, cinammon and whipped cream (even though he’s already half-frozen and soaked wet) yet there’s no way he will manage to walk to his favorite coffee shop right now, hell he doesn’t even know how to swim properly, and it will only be a shame to die young before even managing to educate at least two schools against transphobia, or maybe to just overthrow the government.

He groans in desperation before even entering. He can  _smell_ the Christmas carols before even hearing them. He has fallen a victim of sheer, undisguised capitalism.

He should have fucking known.

He hates everything. How blissfully warm it is inside, the crackling of the fire (way to exploit all the remaining forests of the world and give everybody cancer, hell aren’t people educated nowadays?) the wonderful scents of different coffee blends and baked goodies, croissants and donuts and apple strudels with cinnamon, he hates the dim light and  _Santa Baby_ (he’s been scarred for life ever since he saw Courfeyrac and Bossuet drunkenly stripping to it) and the soft leather armchairs that look so welcoming and of course the Christmas tree decorated with plastic red cups (he could spend half an hour rolling his eyes and not get tired of it). And just as he waits in the queue, convinced that he couldn’t get any more pissed off with his dripping wet self and his stupid decisions, his eyes fall on the barista.

And all he can do is internally groan for the rest of the night. To infinity and beyond.

Because how said barista is even  _allowed_ to look at him like that with blue, piercing eyes as if he is bloody undressing him, sending an unpleasant mixture of shame and frustration and uncomfortable  _warmth_ to the pit of his stomach? And who even gave him the right to work so quickly and deftly with his hands, capturing Enjolras’ eyes so very unwillingly, long fingers working their way with the coffee machine, lips forming to a crooked smile towards the customer in front of Enjolras as they curl around a sharpie to quickly scribble a name on a papercup? What the fuck is wrong with Enjolras? It isn’t as if the man is playing the goddamn piano or something, though Enjolras can easily picture those callused fingertips with the bitten, round fingernails, landing on black and white keys, one after the other and stroking them lazily, producing some bizarre melody he can almost hear in his ears…

 

“Are you taking anything, angel fallen to the  _grounds_? A blow drier, maybe?”

Enjolras groans with desperation at the terrible pun and oh fuck that fucking voice... So hoarse and deep and bitter and yes, in fact Enjolras wants to take several things and he wants them bitter.

A coffee.

_The barista._

Coffee. A bloody coffee.

“Is your coffee fair trade?” he hears himself asking seriously, with a frown of annoyance at the sound of the word _angel_.  _Honestly?_ Was that the best he could do?

The barista leans forward, a wild dark curl falling dangerously over his brow. “You giving me your number,” he mutters hoarsely, “now that’s a fair trade.”

Enjolras has to admit that he’s rather taken aback. In fact he hardly even manages to hold himself from hissing in utter frustration because _honestly_? Are they doing pickup lines already? This is Courfeyrac’s field, not his own and he most definitely doesn’t have time to be furtherly annoyed and mournfully outsassed tonight, especially not by ridiculously attractive baristas

 

_with hands made of sex_

“Listen,” he huffs, running a hand through his damp blond hair that is already forming into perfect ringlets. “I really am in a hurry so just please get on with a double espresso, okay?”

“Double espresso,” whistles the barista, mostly to himself, taking his blue eyes away from Enjolras  _but why?_ “God save us all.”

“Really,” mutters Enjolras, shifting his weight from one foot to the other impatiently. “The commentary is quite unnecessary.” He thinks of the notes and the highlighted pages of the books in his wet backpack. “Make it triple.”

The barista turns around slowly to reveal a raised eyebrow. “My tip jar feels way too empty for me to consent in an upcoming dystopia.”

Enjolras leans closer over the counter, feeling completely pushed to his edge. “Are you  _blackmailing me_ to give you money in order to have my coffee the way it pleases me?”

“Actually your number could serve just as well,” the barista shrugs his shoulders, turning around again to push the lever of the brewer. The sleeves of his forest green sweater are raised up a little, and Enjolras can see a few prominent veins on their pale underside, as well as the ending of two colorful tattoo sleeves. After that he’s convinced that he deserves a coffee. Or eleven.

“What’s your name?”

“My name?” asks Enjolras, slightly disoriented. “Listen, this is hardly professional behavior. I could make a complaint…”

The barista raises an eyebrow. “Okaay… I suppose I don’t really need to write your name on your cup, not really. You can just go around and smell all of the cups to see which one contains the heart attack you just ordered.”

Enjolras mentally pictures himself banging his own head on the brick-and-wood wall of the coffee shop, so instead he simply mutters “Enjolras.”

“How do you even  _say_ that?” moans the barista, surprised. “Don’t you forget your own name?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, throwing a glance at his watch. “No one forgets their own name.”

“It’s pretentious…”

“Is not!”

“Whatever you say...”

“Don’t you dare write any ridiculous pet name on it…”

“’Course not.”

“Do you need to…”

“I know how to spell.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

Silence falls as Enjolras waits behind the counter for what seems like ages, watching the barista’s hands working with several different orders and wondering how his fingers would feel carded in his hair, wrapped around his wrists, pinning him against the damn brick wall…

He groans in frustration as the man with the dark curls slides a steamy red papercup across the counter, together with the receipt and fucking winks  _Jesus Christ talk about unprofessional_ before taking his blue glance away, much to Enjolras’ dismay.

 

He takes the cup in his hands, and it feels impossibly hot against his gloveless skin. It’s relieving in every sense of the word and before even being able to look at it, he pays and brings the cup to his lips, inhaling in the rich smell before taking a sip that fills his whole being with perfect, bitter warmth and  _fuck him_ is there peppermint in it? He never asked for peppermint but it does taste surprisingly good with the coffee blends and a tiny part of him wonders how the barista would taste but it is wrong, everything is wrong, the rate of his pulse and the flush that spreads across his cheeks and the last image of the man tracing his tongue over his lips before Enjolras turned around and left, the hint of a teasing smile just there, and why did it make his insides to jump in such a way why  _why_ , since when was it allowed to people to fuck other people with their eyes without their consent? That is violation of his rights in every possible way Enjolras can think of! Are people even aware of the importance of _consent_? Enjolras never gave his consent to be fucked by a pair of blue eyes!

 

It was only when he walks out in the rain, swearing under his breath as the cold air piercex the bare skin of his hands and face, that he notices the sharpie scribble on the hot papercup containing his coffee, and swears loudly this time, feeling his insides doing that horrible, frustrating thing as if they’re empty and then they aren’t because the thing is moving in other parts of his body and the cup is hot but getting cold because it’s raining and he has work to finish and the Christmas carols are already fucking meddling with his head ever so annoyingly but fuck,  _EnjolrASS?_ Seriously? Was that the best he could come up with?

 

Apparently it wasn't, Enjolras realizes as his eyes fall on the receipt. The handwriting is quick and quirky and he imagines those deft fingers wrapped around the sharpie, wrapped around -  _fucking concentrate_

A capital R. And next to that, a phone number. With no second thoughts, he prepares himself to toss the receipt into the nearest recycle bin. Somehow, -later Enjolras will blame it all on the rain and on the distraction of the carols in his spinning head- it ends up in his pocket.

  
 _You giving me your number, now that’_ _s_ _a fair trade._

The fucking barista.

*

 

Combeferre finds the receipt with the number in the pocket of Enjolras' jeans while he does the laundry. When he asks his if this belongs to him (of course it belongs to him it was in his fucking pocket and it’s not like they’re not used in people slipping their numbers in Enjolras’ jeans even though this time it was Enjolras himself who slid the number in his pocket but there is no way he’s going to admit this, not if it means the end of the world) and who is ‘R’, Enjolras almost jumps on him and grabs it in his hand, feeling lucky enough for holding himself back from shouting MINE! Apparently lucky isn’t exactly the right word to be characterized with, as Courfeyrac just passes by the door wearing nothing but a golden bathrobe and a garland of holly around his neck –for reasons that are still unknown to Enjolras and will hopefully remain that way- and stops only to peer his head through it, with a sardonic smile spread upon his face and sneer “you kept a number, didn’t you? Pray do prove me wrong, o Captain my Captain, but I think this is a new one coming from you?”

Enjolras ends up cursing the moment when he got that bloody coffee in first place.

Only the next day he finds himself at the coffee shop, half considering to walk away and he curses under his breath because once again he’s soaked wet (even though that’s the reason for ending up there in first place, or so he’s trying to convince himself).

This time he orders just a double espresso and he decides to sit there and finish his work as the Wi-Fi access is free. The barista named R is dressed in maroon under his apron today, a tight V-neck sweater hugging his torso and biceps leaving _just a hint_ of colorful tattoos enough to tease him to death and Enjolras gulps because his collarbones are prominent and in the dim light of the bulbs coming from the stupid papercup tree. It’s impossible not to stare at his hands while he works, considerably more silent this time and Enjolras can only be thankful until R leans forward, handing him his cup which says nothing this time, instead it’s him that speaks, only a whisper through thin, pale lips. “If you were ground coffee, you'd be espresso because you're so fine!”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, mentally begging the universe to not look as flustered as he feels, even though it is but a result of sheer annoyance. He’s feeling mocked to his face and he most definitely cannot take that any longer. “Listen,” he says quietly, careful for other customers not to take any notice of their conversation. “I’m here to study which means I’m way too busy to deal with whatever you have in mind, and this is where it shall be kept. In your mind.” He frowns slightly. “You know what? No, don’t even think. It annoys me.”

R has an eyebrow raised in amusement and Enjolras would gladly shove him against the wall and his sarcasm up his distracting ass –not that he’s managed to see his ass behind the counter but this is highly insignificant, and a thought that definitely should not be occupying his mind right now. “Of course, you’re a student,” nods R. “Are you sure it’s even _legal_ for you to drink coffee?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes impatiently. “I’m a _college_ student, thank you very much for your concern,” he replies in the same sarcastic tone.

“And what do you study, if asking doesn't make me too nosy?”

“History and law and yes it does make you too nosy,” replies Enjolras easily, ignoring R’s breathed “ _Of course…”._ “Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me…”

He ends up sank in a leather armchair that is so comfortable it’s almost painful, a giant textbook on his lap, thousands of notes scattered around the wooden table and this time a hot ceramic mug with little snowflakes on it, hot in his hands, smelling heavenly. He hasn’t yet grown accustomed with the carols, but at least tonight it’s subtle jazz piano versions of them, and they’re far less distracting and maybe even relaxing.

He tries hard to fight it away from the very first moment, but it’s a pool of warmth not entirely related to the internal heating of the place or the coffee that’s already burnt his tongue –which he won’t be able to feel for days-, settling on the bottom of his stomach, his fingers somehow itch to touch the curve of R’s neck as he laughs and nods and talks to other customers from behind the counter, combined with a pang of jealousy that it’s not only _him_ R speaks to and a slight yet alarming acceleration of his pulse every time their eyes meet over the counter, translated to a certain tightness in his jeans (thus the book). Enjolras hasn’t felt like that in ages and he knows it’s meant to go straight to hell because this is not his area of expertise and the last thing he needs in his life right now is _this,_ however one might decide to call it. He just can’t understand the mechanics of the thing, he doesn’t know why it had to be _that_ man he wants to kiss senseless and watch that sarcastic smile disappear from his stupid face. Maybe it’s the lazy posture of his body, the way he says _fuck you, your reindeer and everything you love_ behind those smiles that hardly even reach his eyes, maybe it is the intrigue of the tattoos that are mostly hidden and the shape of his shoulders under the tight thin wool, maybe it is those front crooked teeth and the subtle wrinkles near his eyes when he laughs, the way he tilts his head back and exposes his throat, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows and how would it feel to dig his teeth in that pale scruffy flesh but most of all his hands, God his hands pressed against Enjolras’ torso, holding fiercely on his waist as they-

He realizes he’s been staring too much and Jesus Christ how did he manage to get a fucking _boner_ in a coffee shop, suddenly he feels like he’s fourteen again and this is entirely too frustrating because he should be concentrating on his work, not feeling like a creepy stalker hidden behind a history textbook (especially when he was telling Marius off for the very same reason only three days ago but he isn’t going to admit this to himself, for no reason in the universe). Thankfully enough one of Enjolras’ many talents is to concentrate on his work regardless the circumstances so eventually he does, and he does it well. In fact he finishes writing one of his essays on his laptop and he checks his article once again before mailing it to Combeferre for proofreading, and he replies to most of the mails coming from the abortion society and other organizations considering their collaboration during Christmas holidays. He works so hard, drinking one coffee after the other, that as usually he forgets how time passes.

It’s only at some point that he can absently notice that coffees are not really helping and he might or might not have forgotten to sleep for three nights in a row but he really needs to finish this, he _needs to_ and he doesn’t even care for the barista anymore, he just struggles to keep his eyes open. Just keep typing, he says to himself, and everything will be alright because otherwise it will not and he knows that, the second essay is due to tomorrow and his heart rate is already accelerating again only this time he’s not turned on he’s simply panicking and at the same time he’s too tired to hold himself up so he just keeps typing and it’s probably so fucked up that he’ll read it later and laugh hysterically in every single sentence he’s produced. He just allows his head to fall a little on the side and rest on the comfortable leather cushion, he rests his eyes just for a minute. And soon the world goes dark.

When he wakes up the coffee shop is empty, all apart from R who is wiping some tables clean. The light bulbs on the tree are off, most of the normal lights too. Enjolras throws himself up, all drowsy and alarmed, the horrible aftertaste of coffee and sleep lingering on his mouth, only to notice he has been drooling on his jumper. “Shit ‘m so s’rry,” he mumbles in a croaked voice, rubbing his eyes with the bridges of his hands and stretching his curled body under what seems to be a mustard blanket. Something jumps inside him at the realization that R has probably covered him with it, something warm and entirely too uncomfortable at the same time. “You’ve closed?”

R turns to look at him with an amused smile on his face and God, Enjolras is just about to invite him over here and maybe share the blanket and the warmth of his body because he isn’t even wearing the apron and the maroon sweater is fitting on his flat abdomen and rising up just a bit on his back as he bends over the table, revealing a streak of pale flesh and he has that mental image of him pushing himself behind him, just as R is bent over the table and filling him up slowly, see those blue eyes slide shut in ecstasy, hear him cry his name…

But maybe Enjolras is just too sleepy.

R nods and shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “We’re closed. I’m afraid there’s no way for you to get out. You’ll have to spend the night here.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes with sarcasm. “That was so funny I forgot to laugh.”

R stops for a bit, then turns around and heads to the counter. “Here,” he mutters, taking a seat near Enjolras and handing him a packet of what seems to be a chicken sandwich. “Eat.”

“What?” asks Enjolras incredulously. “I didn’t order any food.”

“Of course you didn’t, you only ordered eight coffees yet you still managed to fall asleep. Quite an overachiever. It seems to me that you’re taking care of yourself is not your strong card.”

Enjolras is now feeling more uncomfortable than before, in fact he is seriously considering finding an excuse and leaving right now, after all the tapping of rain against the windows has ceased. He has Combeferre. He has Joly. That’s different, they’re his friends. He doesn’t need people to _care_ for him and suddenly things are incredibly clear before his eyes. He doesn’t need a person to feel things for him and he doesn’t really have time to feel things for another person if he really wants to focus on providing _more_ people with a better life. At least he is thankful enough to know he has got this under control. The sexual tension would eventually come and bug him more than he’d be willing to admit, Courfeyrac was right. Everyone needed some release and Enjolras was way too tensed. It was only normal for him to eventually feel heated up at the presence of an attractive man who flirted with him in ways much more spontaneous and absurd than other people did. He knows this is normal, but he also knows he can fight it all back.

He doesn’t have time for this when clearly other things in his life are far more important.

“Thank you for your consideration,” he mutters, starting to gather his things, “but I’m not really hungry.”

The man nods understandingly before digging in his pocket with his hand and picking up a patch of doorkeys, shuffling them teasingly before Enjolras’ eyes. “Of course,” he says as a puzzled Enjolras hears the tingling of the metal. “Only I was serious before. You’re not really leaving this place unless you finish this sandwich.”

Enjolras groans at the childishness of the entire situation, feeling entirely too tired and annoyed to play along, though he does have to admit that the loud growl that echoes through the little shop comes from his stomach.

R whistles. “That was charming. I daresay an excellent change to those horrible carols. But I’d really appreciate it if you finished this sandwich and just got over and done with it.”

The blond man can do nothing but grab the wrapped sandwich from the barista’s hands and start biting and chewing greedily, ignoring his amused, piercing glance. He finishes it in less than a minute, probably setting a new record. R is still sitting on an armchair, stretching his legs under the coffee table, and only then does it occur to Enjolras that the man, apart from distractingly annoying and inexplicably hot is probably also exhausted from a long day at work and instead of finishing quickly and heading back home he cared to feed him as if he’s an invalid.

And then it only has to get worse.

“By the manner with in you were working, I assumed this deadline is really pressing,” R tilts his head, pointing at Enjolras’ textbook. “There’s a logical summary of what you’ve underlined in here.” Enjolras picks up the textbook disbelievingly and opens it, just to find a piece of paper with bullet points in the familiar handwriting. “Also I’ve corrected your notes in a few parts where you’ve got them wrong, it was a rather interesting approach though even though I disagree with most of it.”

Enjolras cannot decide whether he feels incredibly thankful, absolutely shocked or downright furious for being a history student who was just corrected by a barista whose name he doesn’t even know. The only question that comes out of his mouth is “Why?”

R simply shrugs his shoulders. “I was bored. And I’m sure that you still have my number.”

Enjolras tries not to blush uncontrollably. “Of course I don’t,” he points out matter-of-factly, standing up and straightening his sweater. “Listen, I really got to go. Thank you very much for the sandwich and, err, your interference. It was kind of you.”

R shakes his curly head slightly wearily. “Don’t even mention it, Apollo. Do keep gracing us mortals with your presence and your loyal servants shall never cease finding ways to be of help.” And with that, he takes a dramatic bow, and all that Enjolras can do is walk away, completely baffled and oddly upset.

*

The third day he visits the coffee shop it’s piercing cold outside and the barista with the dark locks and the colorful tattoos isn’t there. On his post he can see a young girl with dark hair pulled in a messy bun and a ring on her lip without which she’d still look quite menacing. He tries to ignore the feeling of something heavy sinking inside him, and instead he focuses hard on the coffee he desperately needs before heading to his classes. “Is R here?” he hears himself blurting out.

A sardonic smirk slowly spreads upon her face and Enjolras know that this whole thing is apparently much more far gone than what he’d like to consider, and as the girl leans forward, and says “Hello Apollo, I’m Éponine and R has the day off today but I can make you a _triple espresso_ if that’s what you want,” he knows he is totally fucked up.

“Um, just a cinnamon latte for today,” he says quickly, feeling his cheeks burning and he knows he’ll immediately regret it because he hates cinnamon and what was he even thinking when he said that? Feeling anger creeping upon him he raises an eyebrow. “And where did ‘Apollo’ come from, again?”

She just shrugs her shoulders before turning around to put some beans in the blender and finish up the order of another customer. “He won’t stop talking about Greek Gods descending to Earth ever since you came in and when R is high or utterly shitfaced and starts going on ranting and puking mythology, one must know how to protect themselves.”

The girl named Éponine makes Enjolras really want to leave but at the same time really want to stay and ask all the questions in the world. Needless to say, the universe has been constantly fucking up with his mind lately and he's learnt more than well to admit it, so he sets in for the latter. “Did he talk for me?”

Éponine simply rolls her eyes in exasperation and passes him the hot papercup. “Of course, and I’d be lying if I said that I can’t see why.” She leans forward over the counter, causing Enjolras’ blood to freeze in his veins even though he’s the one who always stands on the front when protest rallies get out of hand, the one who’d never be afraid of seemingly anything. “But know that if you hurt him,” she smiles sardonically, her voice dangerously sweet, “I will blend coffee from the flesh of your _dick_!”

Enjolras gulps and nods curtly. “Good. Charming. Thank you for your time. Um, nice to meet you but I have no intention of hurting people I hardly know and I don’t think I’m interested in your friend the way you assume…” He wraps his hands around the cup, feeling particularly embarrassed and severely pissed off with himself, and turns around to walk away.

“He works as a tattoo artist on Wednesdays and Fridays to pay for his classes. I also know as a matter of fact that you have kept his number so why don’t you just give him a damn call?” he hears her calling behind his back.

When he's outside he takes a sip from his coffee, forgetting it contains cinammon and spitting half of it in the cup through his lips, and the rest of it through his nostrils. He can swear that before he walks away, embarassed, he can hear Eponine laughing her ass off from inside the shop.

 

 

*

Of course, Enjolras never gives people _calls_. He knows he can't afford sparing important time for relationships, he knows he can’t deal with all this roller coaster of frustration and discomfort (mostly in his jeans) every time he sees or even thinks of R, and he tries hard to stay back from all this.

However he finds himself unable not to stop by for his daily coffee one more time –even though it is early evening and the sky is already dark, the streets insufferably busy and Christmas closer than a breath, getting on his nerves more than ever.

This time they don’t speak much, in fact, they hardly speak at all. Enjolras sips his coffee and reads his book, trying to get rid of the dull throbbing in the pit of his stomach and the feeling of uncertainty and confusion that meddles with his mind. In a moment which is not so busy, he watches R throw a parka jacket over his apron and walk outside. Just before he’s able to control himself, he stands up and follows him, abandoning the book on the table.

The man is standing just outside the door, watching the traffic with his jacket barely wrapped around him despite the freezing cold, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, and he somehow looks distant, so different from the usually sarcastic smiles and the horrible puns. His dark hair is tousled and wild and his cheeks unshaven and red from the cold and Enjolras walks towards him before being able to hold himself back.

The man turns around to face him slowly, a little startled. “Get inside, Apollo. You’ll freeze to death.”

“So,” Enjolras ignores him, “I’ve done some research,” his tone is approving. “It _might_ be a chain store which is definitely harmful for the little corporations in the area, but at least your employers seem to value coffee ethics enough and there is an excellent selection of organic coffee…”

“Good for them,” he mutters carelessly. “Not that this changes anything for me.”

Enjolras stops there, startled. “Wait, you mean… you don’t care whether the company you work for abuses human’s rights by cooperating with farmers who try to obtain cheap labour? You mean you’d still work for them if they did so?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Would my quitting this job and be broke and drunk for the rest of my life stop global workers exploitation?”

Enjolras is completely shocked. “I can’t believe you think that way.” The man reeks of alcohol, Enjolras hadn't noticed before. They'd never stood so close to each other. His eyes open widely. “You’re drunk already anyway, aren’t you?” he asks.

R leaves a small chuckle. “I might be. Is that abuse of workers’ rights as well?”

“No,” Enjolras practically growls, “that’s an abuse of your customers’ rights.”

And then everything goes to hell. The barista takes a deep drag of smoke before slowly taking the cigarette off his mouth and throwing it on the pavement, stepping on it with the tip of his boot. A wide, sarcastic smile spreads across his features and he breathes “You’re some piece of work, Apollo.” Enjolras is fast enough to hiss “Don’t call me that!” blood pounding quickly in his meninges because he’s furious with the man’s attitude towards him, he’s furious with the way he slowly traces his tongue across his dry, chapped lips, with his careless posture and his hands _oh his hands,_ gloveless and cold and dry only big and strong, veins barely visible against the back of them, smooth palms that he notices as R brings them closer to his mouth to breathe on them and warm them up a bit and the callused tips of his fingers _he’s a tattoo artist_ and Enjolras can hardly control himself anymore, his heart is racing, sending blood to the most uncomfortable of places, causing his muscles to throb with need and lust and pictures of all those dreams he’s had these nights, and just then R asks mockingly “Why? What will you do?” and before any of them can stop, without knowing who really does it, their lips are pressed together and it’s fierce and harsh and hot and full of need and hatred and confusion, mouths going slack and sliding against each other, hands carding in curls and cupping on warm necks and pulling each other closer, ignoring the low temperature only until they shiver but it might be due to the insufferable tightness in Enjolras’ pants and the fire that burns all through his body. The dark haired man lets a small, hoarse moan from the back of his throat, in complete and utter bewilderment before eagerly leaning into the kiss. He’s clinging from Enjolras’ coat almost desperately as if his life depends on it and he slides his tongue in his mouth, it’s hot and wet and _heavenly_ as it slides across the back of his teeth and dances with Enjolras’ tongue savagely, trying to taste every corner of him. It’s like none of them has kissed in years, which in Enjolras’ case it’s true but in the barista’s it most definitely is not but Enjolras can’t think of all the things he has deprived himself from, he can’t because R is throwing his arms around him and pulling him closer and then a hand comes to rest on the nape of his neck and God his hand is _cold,_ so bloody cold which was only expected but Enjolras shivers against it and groans and they stammer as they press each other back against the wall of the coffee shop in a corner where customers won’t be able to see them but none of them seems to care anymore because _fuck_ he tastes of alcohol and coffee and cigarettes and he somehow smells of pine and paint and Enjolras needs to _touch_ him but the man breaks the kiss, breathless, panting against Enjolras’ chest which is rising and falling in a desperate struggle with the cold and the oxygen and the erratic rhythm of his breath.

“Fuck,” croaks R. “That was…” his eyes slide shut for a while, as if he’s replaying the kiss in his mind, only he looks pained and Enjolras can understand oh Enjolras _definitely_ understands. “I will need another cigarette,” the dark haired man hisses, flushed and disheveled, pushing his body against Enjolras’ almost drunkenly so that they can feel the warmth of each other beneath the layers of clothing, despite the cold, they can feel each other’s frantic heartbeat and breathing and fuck where did that even come from? “Or eleven.”

“I will need more of _this_ ,” replies Enjolras huskily, forgetting everything about self-control and pulling the man closer to feel every curve of his body against his own, the hardness pressing against his jeans, his raspy, hot alcohol breath on the skin of his cheek. “If… if that’s okay for you, of course.” It’s absurd, he knows it is but Enjolras has always felt confident with his decisions and right now he simply knows he has to do this, he _needs_ it more than anything and if the other man really needs it at well then they can give it to each other with no commitment of any kind, nothing to mess up their lives like they’ve been messed up in the past, just the release they’re desperately seeking.

“Fuck yes,” groans the barista. “Of course, I mean… _yes._ I just… I need to go back in there now. It’s not too busy tonight but my shift has not yet finished. We should probably get it somewhere inside, though. I don’t really fancy catching pneumonia though I mean I wouldn’t mind if I was to get more of this oh _fuck_ Apollo…”

“Right, yeah, go inside,” Enjolras nods quickly. “I’ll wait for you to finish. Inside.” He realizes that his words come out almost shaky and God this is strange and the distant sound of _Frosty the snowman_ coming from inside is distracting, to say the least and he doesn’t really know… “When you say inside you mean…”

“Obviously not in the coffee shop,” says R quickly. “I mean, it would be quite unsanitary and we can't shut the place down, I really do need this job at the current time period. Just… wait inside and then we can head back in my place,” says R in one breath, “if of course that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Right,” nods Enjorlas quickly, breathlessly. “I mean, why would it? Your place sounds good. Just…” he grabs the man’s arm before they’re ready to turn around and walk in the warm, rich-scented shop. He raises his voice in order to be heard through the traffic and the chattering of every passerby. “If we do this…” he shuts his eyes tightly, trying to collect himself. “This has to be _casual,_ okay? Just… this,” he realizes how awkward he sounds but the situation has already become incredibly absurd to analyze any part of it anymore. “No helping each other with homework, no… caring for each other, like you did the other day. I mean… believe me, I hugely appreciated it but we have to be careful, alright? We don’t want things to get complicated.”

R nods, seeming to be carefully considering the deal. “Of course,” he says slowly. “I agree. No complicating things. No caring for each other. I can do that.”

“And, R?”

The man stops again at the door of the coffee shop, turning around. “Yes, Apollo?”

“What’s your real name? You know, not that you have to share it of course, it’s not like we need to know anything about each other…”

“It’s Grantaire,” He’s wrapping his arm around Enjolras’ waist seductively and a strong hand comes to rest on his hip, groping suddenly, causing the student’s man to hitch in his throat. There is something completely irresistible about that smirk on the corner of his lips, the smirk Enjolras wants to kiss off his ridiculous sarcastic face. “Promise to scream it later,” he whispers, and Enjolras thinks he’s going to explode.  _Grantaire,_ he repeats in his head again and again before realizing the pun and groaning to himself. Of fucking course.  _Grantaire._

And scream it he shall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes all the sex. I think that this time I'm not really sorry.
> 
> The morning scene (apart from the fridge thing) with Enjolras at Grantaire's is shamelessly taken from the movie 'No strings attached' which is one of my favorite silly rom-coms and you should really see it.

They don’t even realize how they manage to arrive in Grantaire’s place, without really exchanging a word, or anything more than a sneaky glance or two on their way. It’s an almost eerie December night, all foggy and cold and rainless. They both focus on their fast breathing as it comes out of their mouths in cold clouds of air, and on the distant smell of winter and pine even though they’re in the center of the city, and it’s somehow soothing them down.

Grantaire’s deft fingers, now limp and red from the cold are trembling slightly as he turns the key on the door of their apartment and Enjolras notices in dismay that the inside of the small, dark place doesn’t feel any warmer than the outside. He flinches at the idea of taking his clothes off in a few minutes, but maybe it’s not just a result of the cold. The whirlpool of thoughts in terms of _you’re in the dark, cold apartment of a complete stranger, supposed to take his dick inside of you in a matter of minutes_ completely and quickly dissolve from his head because that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs and he needs it with every fiber of his being. He doesn’t feel unsafe in there, he doesn’t feel unsure. He doesn’t give the apartment a second glance, just follows Grantaire the small distance to his room. The only light that Grantaire turns on is a line of Christmas bulbs just around the edge of the bed which really is a mattress covered with an old blanket and a couple of kitschy pillows. “This is me,” mutters Grantaire a little uncomfortably, and now he doesn’t look half as sarcastic as he did before. “It’s a shithole, really, but that’s what you get from the slacker career.”

“It’s cozy,” murmurs Enjolras quickly, meaning every word at the thought of his large, minimalistic apartment with the soft beige carpets and the cream leather sofas, but immediately keeping himself from getting in any way attracted to an apartment which is not his own and he hopefully won’t have to visit again, in a moment of weakness. “Um, you don’t have a flatmate, do you?”

“Jehan won’t return for hours,” Grantaire assures him and even though it somehow alarms Enjolras that there _is_ a Jehan, he feels comforted enough at the certainty in Grantaire’s suddenly sobered up voice. They stand like that for a bit, next to each other, need throbbing through their bodies and aching to be released. Grantaire’s face and curvy throat are glistening in the dim light coming from the bulbs, he’s wearing no scarf and Enjolras watches as he takes off his jacket and kicks off his boots and Enjolras wants to press his lips on the unshaven flesh so he does, without a warning he cups Grantaire’s nape and digs his teeth greedily in his pulse point, eliciting a hoarse moan from the depth of his chest. He smells of smoke and liquor and salty sweat and Enjolras wants to taste more of him, his hands are all over his back, massaging his broad shoulders over the fabric of his impossibly tight sweater and moving lower, to rest on the small of his back and feel his waist. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not sure,” he hears himself muttering but Grantaire only lets a whimper, pulling Enjolras closer and sliding his fingers through his blond locks as he presses his lips on his own, kissing him breathless.

They fight with their clothes and their shoes, layers flying on the floor and struggling with the buttons and the zippers. It’s harsh and fierce and greedy, and Enjolras feels alive in the most natural of manners after so much time. He doesn’t know what kept him so long from laying his fingers upon heated skin, tattooed muscles and chapped lips. It feels right as if they’ve been destined to be like that, a mess of limbs and arms and disheveled curls fighting savagely upon the mattress. Their tongues are dancing almost in distress, begging to memorize every inch of the other, every taste and every scent because that’s all they need to know about each other, that and nothing else, just the way their skin feels beneath their hands and every curve of their bodies fits so well with every hollow.

Despite the chilly air of the room the blood pounding in their veins in what seems to be some excellent synchronization has them on heat, their torsos pressed together, Grantaire’s leg wrapped around Enjolras’ waist as they kiss and feel each other grants them with much more warmth than the blanket would. Enjolras has denied himself human contact – _physical,_ intimate contact- for so long and now he treasures every minute of it, and Grantaire is much more experienced than himself and he works his way on his body as if he was born to touch him. He seems more eager to offer Enjolras, a complete stranger and a customer of the shop he works in, pleasure, than he needs to offer it to himself. He does nothing that Enjolras does not seem to enjoy, and he hesitates, waiting for permission before any movement, and it is Enjolras’ sighs and moans that apparently give him the immense pleasure he’s been seeking.

“This has to be,” Enjolras’ breath hitches on his throat as they break the kiss, both of them rolling on the sheets in their boxers, “absolutely no strings attached.”

Grantaire lets a small grunt, his eyes half shut in desire. “Absolutely. Any rules?” he murmurs against Enjolras’ pulse point, his lips on his throat.

“Nothing of the shit people do to take sex…” he’s struggling to catch his breath, hands wandering everywhere, “to a next level. No cuddling. No sharing clothes. No…” he lets a small moan as Grantaire’s deft hands cup the throbbing bulge in his boxers. “No breakfast.”

“I hate breakfast,” Grantaire agrees with a raspy breath.

“I need this,” grunts Enjolras as Grantaire’s hand slides beneath the fabric and curls around the curve of his hard cock. “Do this for me.”

“Anything for you.” Grantaire is stroking Enjolras’ cock attentively, convinced to give the beautiful man as much pleasure as is possible. Enjolras’ hands are grasping on the barista’s strong, colorful biceps, sliding on his back to rest between his shoulder blades and dig in his skin, in spots that will be marked afterwards. Grantaire’s voice is hoarse and deep and beautiful and his amazing hands to wonders around his erection, pounding violently with his pulse. “Just… Tell me what you need.”

“Fuck me,” groans Enjolras, tilting his head back against the pillow and subconsciously pushing his hips up against Grantaire’s fist. “Jesus R, don’t lose any more time…”

Grantaire is quickly getting rid of his boxers and Enjolras’ head is already spinning but he can make out the man's shape, the thick curve of his hips at the dim Christmas lights, his firm abdomen and his hard, thick cock curving up his stomach. Grantaire may not be conventionally beautiful even though his features made Enjolras ache ever since he first saw him in the coffee shop, but his body objectively is a piece of art. Maybe he does some sport, he boxes or he dances, Enjolras doesn’t know but right now he doesn’t really care, all he cares about right now is those strong hands ridden with veins, short nails and deft knuckles, groping his ass as a needy expression takes over Grantaire’s unshaven face. “On your knees,” he hisses, more than willing to oblige and give Enjolras what he needs. The blonde obeys quickly and he feels Grantaire stretching his body over the bed and fidgeting in some small cupboard, searching for condoms and a bottle. He can hear the dripping sound of the lube falling in the other’s palm and his breath hitches violently in his throat, he can feel his own pulse throbbing through his every muscle, his palms support his weight against the mattress and Grantaire’s hands are _there,_ just there between his parted thighs, Enjolras flinches at the cold, damp sensation of the lube but then a finger is gently sliding inside him and he gasps, both in sudden discomfort and in desperate need for _more._ He hasn’t done this for so long, not even on his own, and never in the past has it been so absolutely mind taking, so much for his eyes to slide shut and his red lips to part slightly in delight. Grantaire pushes his finger inside him, then another, twitching and curving slowly at first, then in a quicker pace, feeling Enjolras’ insides twitching around him. “Tell me if this is uncomfortable,” Enjolras hears him say but he just groans “shut up,” and presses himself back against Grantaire’s hand more and more, and more…

“Fuck me R please _fuckfuck…”_

He knows he is incoherent but he doesn’t care anymore, he just needs release and he needs it with pain, physical pain throbbing all through his body. Grantaire pulls out of him and kneels on the bed, all gorgeous in the lights, stroking himself lazily with a large palm, his eyes never leaving Enjolras body, the curve of his back, the shape of his raised hips and long, bent legs as he waits for him. The man’s blue eyes are half shut in utter bliss, free of their usual sarcasm and full of passion that Enjolras had never thought his cynical nature could bare. He’s staring at the blond student with what seems like devotion, even for those greedy, animalistic moments they’re about to share, as if these moments are what he holds on in order to live.

Enjolras feels him easing himself inside him and _fuck_ this is utter fucking _hell,_ Grantaire is large or at least he feels large in his tight walls, causing a desperate gasp to escape his lips. It takes a moment for them to catch their breath and for Grantaire to fully slide inside of him. The pain of being torn apart after all this time soon grows more bearable and when times seems to start ticking again on the clock, Grantaire’s hands come to grip on the sides of Enjolras’ hips, starting to thrust inside of him slowly at first, then harshly, fervently. Grantaire’s teeth are gritted and he rhythmically heaves small grunts and hoarse, muted sighs as if he’s afraid of disgracing the moment, while Enjolras is loud, his eyes tightly shut, his elbows bent against the mattress, moaning incorrigibly as he thrusts his hips back fucking himself against him as if his world depends on being as close to each other as possible, no inch of breath between them just skin on skin and _skin,_ warmth and sweat and flesh, filling each other up in the most glorious and twisted of ways. They soon pick up a pace and Grantaire’s hand comes beneath Enjolras’ body and wraps around his cock, stroking him quickly, making sure to take care of him despite the desperation in his low, husky breaths and groans.

Enjolras’ knees and elbows are intensely sore from the friction and the pressure against the mattress but he doesn’t seem to care, his whole body is now aching for release and he’s screaming Grantaire’s name just like he promised because Grantaire deserves it, he deserves every little hint of praise, him and his cock inside him, his perfect hands touching him here and there as if he’s an artist working on his very own masterpiece yet Enjolras feels human, more human than ever, alive and real and _free,_ all the tension of weeks and weeks dissolved from his body just beneath the hands of a tattoo artist who serves organic coffee in a little shop which plays stupid Christmas carols.

Grantaire finishes twitching, pressing up his hips wearily, having lost every sense of rhythm, grunting with his mouth buried in Enjolras’ curls, releasing himself inside him savagely, and collapsing against him, never stopping to rub Enjolras’ erection beneath him. Enjolras comes just after a while, falling against the mattress with a moan, his eyes shut and his chest rising and falling in a struggle. His whole body aches and his limbs are numb but in a strange, intense sort of way and he knows that never in the past has he experienced anything like that.

It doesn’t feel wrong or unnatural as he gets up and picks up his clothes, even though he’d rather lie down forever, eyes shut in ecstasy. But they mutter a few incoherent nothings of gratefulness to each other and Grantaire doesn’t even walk Enjolras to the door. It grants him with an excellent level of autonomy which is more than convenient, no sense of commitment whatsoever, just a foreign apartment that feels nothing to Enjolras and a man he doesn’t need to know anything about apart from his number and where he’ll find him again, a dull throbbing ache between his thighs, a lingering scent of smoke on his clothes and the best sex he’s had in years. It feels right, freeing, just like it should be.

Enjolras walks away, ready to catch up with his work before Christmas.

 

*

"Look at you all glowing like Rudolph's fucking nose!"

"Courfeyrac I'm currently having a SHOWER!"

Courfeyrac whistles at Enjolras' growl, clearly untouched by it as he continues shuffling aroun the bathroom and reading the bottles of the products Enjolras uses for his hair. "Fancy! I always knew it couldn't be natural..."

"OF COURSE it is natural, you use bloody conditioner too, why try deny it? I'm repeating I'm having a SHOWER!"

"You're no fun," snorts Courfeyrac, "Combeferre lets me talk to him when he's washing his hair!"

"Exactly, when he's washing his  _hair,_ not when he's having a  _full body shower with a transparent bathroom curtain!"_

Courfeyrac chuckles mischievously. "You make it sound so serious when it's just pure hotness between childhood friends."

Enjolras sighs in the bathtub, trying his best to cover himself and returning to spitting water on the piles which is one of his favorite habits  _Feuilly blows wrapping paper bubbles too to relax when there are no cigarettes and Feuilly is perfect, okay?_ "What is it that you want? About the petition?"

"The petition goes more than well, you know it's not about the petition," Courfeyrac waves his hand in the air dismissively. "The thing is, you got laid and said nothing to me. And apart from that it's really cute because you like him as well and you don't even know that yet."

Sod the conditioner. This shower has to finish right now. Or the conditioner can just serve Courfeyrac's head instead of his own.

Together with the bottle.

*

The second time they get to Grantaire’s apartment Enjolras looks around more, but his viewing spectrum is now different because they’re both drunk and Enjolras has never been drunk before. This time there’s a lopsided Christmas tree in the tiny living room, with oranges, popcorn and too much glitter, skulls that might or might not seem real in Enjolras’ fuzzy head and when Grantaire notices him Enjolras look at it while they kiss sloppily in front of it, he simply slurs “Jehan”. There are a few sketches scattered around the floor and the black and white pictures dimly lit by the bulbs jump before Enjolras’ eyes and he notices a couple of empty beer bottles on the weird pillow fort that serves as a couch. They move it quickly to the bedroom without many words, giggling softly and breathing raggedly against each other’s mouth, tongues everywhere, teeth digging in flesh and humming on skin prayers that cannot be written on paper. Clothes fly everywhere and they giggle wickedly, like teenagers in their first time. Grantaire throws his head back his teeth crooked and his neck rough and curvy, and Enjolras begs to be ravished, alcohol dripping through his veins and messing with his mind but God he _needs_ this and he says so because Grantaire is touching him with those sinful fingers and _yes oh yes right th_ ere and _how dare he_ do those things to him, he half parts his lips and moans _Jesus fuck R!_ and R just opens him up slowly because _anything for you, anything, anything for you,_ as if Enjolras has saved him from a dark asphyxiating slumber, an eternity of nightmares and he’s clinging from him desperately even for those moments of sharing warmth and sighs and nothing more and nothing less.

That night they break the promise yet not entirely. Someone bangs on the door just as Grantaire climaxes and shouts “I can’t focus on my bloody porn with all this real sex going on here!” yet Enjolras is not ashamed, he has no reason to be. With Grantaire it’s just sex, a mere, conscious deal and he’ll never really have to deal with apologies, he’ll never see those flatmates again, they aren’t people that mean anything significant to his life and he means nothing in theirs, they won’t even have to know each other. Enjolras’ head spins too much to be able to focus in anything at all, he can’t think properly, he feels funny and he really doesn’t know how and why he shared that bottle with Grantaire after his shift at the shop was over. Sleeping together is not against the rules, and they sleep facing away from each other, Enjolras curled in a ball having stolen all the covers and Grantaire dozes off, snoring lightly, his limbs and tattooed arms sprawled all over the mattress. The rules are broken overnight and by Enjolras himself without him realizing it because he wraps his arms tightly around Grantaire’s waist, suffocating him and burying his head in the man’s warm shoulder. Grantaire’s breath is soft and warm in his face and he unconsciously responds in the hug, holding each other and breathing peacefully until Enjolras wakes up with his arm clinging on an empty mattress, his head spinning and throbbing violently in an actual revolution against his whole body, realizing he’s drooled all over the pillow.

With terror he realizes that he doesn’t remember anything, and the messy tiny room that’s now lit with a few stray winter sunrays entering through the transparent, patched curtains, buckets of paint, empty bottles and old books of anarchist philosophers scattered all around the floor isn’t at all familiar to him. He’d be completely horrified about his state and what happened last night or rather what he _did_ last night if it weren’t for the violent pain that causes his whole body to explode and _what the actual fuck?_

He drags his boxer cladded body to what seems like a small kitchen, in the completely unfamiliar apartment, and sits on a half-broken wooden chair garishly wrapped with light bulbs, a small kitchen counter with purple festive garlands all around and a sink full of unwashed dishes. He looks around confused, completely unaware of his own looks, flushed cheeks and pillow marks and a mop of tousled, golden locks. Just then, when he’s ready to ask the coffee machine where he is and what has happened, a girl in an oversized sweater that reaches her bare thighs, cladded in woolen socks enters the room , wild dark bed hair all around her face, eyes smudged with eyeliner and a pierced bottom lip. She looks absolutely menacing and her face _does_ ring a bell, even though Enjolras isn’t entirely too sure. “You don’t remember my name, do you?” she murmurs in a groggy lazy voice.

He’s eighty seven percent sure that she _must_ have a name though there’s also that thirteen percent that either does not function quite logically, or is simply unable to recall that name. He simply lets a small whimper, pulling his ankles on the chair and his legs close to his naked, cold body. Just then a second person appears in the kitchen, this time a man just around his age, maybe a little younger wearing a pair of flannel tartan pyjamas with poinsettias and the ugliest sweater Enjolras has ever seen in his life, with pom poms for snow and a gingerbread man and a scary ass fluffy kitten with a Christmas bow. His ginger hair is braided in a bun and held in place with a couple of pencils, freckles are scattered all around his face and he smiles at him dreamily before browsing in the cupboards for teabags. Everything is fuzzy in Enjolras’ head but his education and nourishment point him to be polite. “Did you um, have a good time last night?” he asks, now starting to feel completely terrified at the sight of all those people he doesn’t know and at the absence of any memories (and clothes) left from last night.

The man simply shrugs his bony shoulders. “It was okay, nothing special.”

A third person appears in the kitchen, a huge, bulky man in a tight vest and a Mohawk, tribal tattoos wrapped all around his huge, firm biceps and strong shoulders. He’s shuffling something red in the air and smiling lopsidedly. “You left your socks in my room last night,” he growls good-naturedly and Enjolras is now feeling ready to throw up.

“Did I,” he hears himself croaking.

The tiny man with the ginger hair and the ugly sweater pulls a chair and sits next to him, staring seriously. “What happened last night?” asks Enjolras quietly and sheepishly, deciding that he feels much safer around this one man, who’s nursing a huge mug of tea. “You made my body ache so much,” the ginger answers sincerely, in an oddly manly voice.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Enjolras slowly, wishing for the earth to burst in two right now and swallow him up.

“You’re up!” he raises his eyes behind the kitchen counter and he kind of remembers the whole scene with the counter, only in his mind the dark haired man isn’t wearing a huge Beatles t-shirt and a pair of green boxer shorts, neither is his hair so messy and his face so... adorable from sleep.

“R!” he takes a deep, desperate breath. “Did I have sex with everyone in this apartment last night?”

Everyone holds their breath and the girl with the dark hair leans lazily against the counter with an XL mug of coffee in her hands that really does smell sinfully good, waiting for a show or something.

“Only with me,” Grantaire finally exclaims with a small smirk, getting on with the coffee machine. “A double espresso it is?”

“We agreed no breakfast!” Enjolras rushes to add, feeling everyone’s eyes piercing through him.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Of course, no breakfast.”

“But…” he’s feeling so damn hung over and the coffee smells like sex, only Enjolras hurts all over and he doesn’t really want to think about right now, “coffee doesn’t count as breakfast, right? That’s what Joly always said!”

“No,” says Grantaire almost softly as the huge bulky man and the ginger try not to choke in their snickers, the girl rolling her eyes in a way that scarily enough reminds Enjolras of Combeferre. “I don’t know who Joly is but coffee doesn’t count as breakfast.”

“Then I’ll have some coffee, thank you,” he murmurs sheepishly. “And, um… my clothes?”

“Fridge,” the girl who he’s apparently seen at the coffee shop points at the fridge lazily and he nods solemnly.

“Right. Fridge.”

Oddly enough, Grantaire’s coffee tastes even better in his apartment, which Enjolras abandons as fast as he finishes it. There’s something odd in the dark haired barista’s eyes, almost tender, something melancholic in his crooked smile, and as he enters the elevator, Enjolras reaches in the pocket of his coat for the wrinkled receipt with his number on it.

It is still there.

*

The coffee shop is closing and Enjolras cannot wait for Grantaire to send away all the remaining customers because the tightness in his pants is throbbing and has grown quite insufferable. There are only a few days remaining until Christmas and the carols are on their fucking climax but Enjolras wants to see someone else climaxing, blue eyes sliding shut in ecstasy and half parted lips letting whimpers, begging for release to come from _his own mouth,_ oh Enjolras can’t stand this anymore and he is pretty much aware of the fact that he has grown rather clingy and far more immature than he usually wants himself to be but it’s so hard to hold back. Enjolras is even willing to be the one to use horrible pickup lines this time, if this means cornering Grantaire alone and quicker before returning home to finish the planning about the following meeting with Combeferre and Feuilly. “Did you invite these people? I thought it was going to be just the two of us,” he whispers just behind the counter and Grantaire looks at him with glowing blue eyes, slightly startled at his neediness. “Don’t make me become unprofessional,” he groans quietly through his teeth as Enjolras sneakily traces his fingers up along the hollow of his throat, when no customer is staring.

He ends up politely yet hurriedly pleading for the clients to pay, pretending to be cleaning around so that they’ll get the message and leave them the fuck alone, carefully hiding a hard-on behind his apron.

When eventually the shop is empty and Grantaire locks the door, Enjolras grabs him by the clothes and kisses him straight on the lips, completely startling him. They push their way in the small kitchen that smells of peppermint and chocolate and baked goodies, ignoring Michael Buble’s version of _All I want for Christmas_ which somehow feels entirely too wrong as Enjolras shoves Grantaire back against a sugar-and-flour covered counter, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down his knees, boxers following and exposing his hard, pulsating cock.

“What the fuck…” hisses Grantaire in utter shock, “I’m going to lose my bloody – fuckfuck _fuck Apollo!”_

Enjolras is on his knees, his warm, wet mouth wrapped tightly around the barista’s length, tracing his tongue up and down from his base to the dripping head, tasting all of him, teasing and sucking, stroking his balls with his fingers as he deepthroats him. He pulls away for a minute only to smirk “Good, then maybe you’ll actually think of doing something important with your life… not that I have any say in it,” he rushes to add because he can’t say his opinion for someone’s career when they only have each other for some seasonal sex, so he immediately returns in paying Grantaire back for those times he’s taken care of him so attentively in the past because this is a deal and receivers in both ends of a deal must be equally satisfied, simple and pure mathematics –not that Enjolras has ever been any good in them. Grantaire’s callused fingers come to grip on Enjolras’ blond locks and he stammers against the counter a bit, losing his balance because _fuck fuck fuuuck_ he tastes so good in Enjolras’ hot mouth, Enjolras could go on doing this forever if it means that he’s going to elicit such hoarse, desperate, _scandalous_ sounds from Grantaire’s mouth, and the thought that they’re defiling the kitchen of a capitalistic chain shop makes it all much more fascinating, even though he has to admit that the coffee is good but then again he owes it all to Grantaire who is now groaning his name like the most glorious of mantras, hoarsely and deeply with veneration in his voice, his cock twitching so perfectly in Enjolras mouth and Enjolras looks up mischievously, his expression wild and challenging and Grantaire is breathing raggedly, helplessly and it looks so good _he_ looks so good. “Fuck _yes_ Enjolras, I’m going to… fuck I’m going to _co-o-ome…”_ and he sounds like he’s so afraid for that to happen, as if Enjolras’ body and mouth create a sacred temple no mortals like Grantaire can touch in such a way but Enjolras fastens the pace and sucks softly and soon Enjolras releases in his mouth and Enjolras accepts it whole-heartedly because this is a deal and Grantaire’s thighs feels so good, trembling in Enjolras’ embrace, so warm and shuddering, and Enjolras knows he has done his duty before wiping his mouth savagely with the back of his hand and leaves Grantaire panting for breath, grabbing his rucksack casually to return to his place, still humming those hideous carols in his head.

*

He doesn’t know how it happens, he doesn’t remember when or whether he asked Grantaire to do it, all that he knows is that the barista whose life he knows nothing about, is joining him and his friends at the Corinthe for the annual party a couple days before Christmas. Enjolras has never been really eager to go in parties held at pissy bars because Courfeyrac just happens to have gotten laid with most of the bartenders –regardless their gender. All he knows is that for once he isn’t ashamed of introducing someone to his friends even though he and Grantaire have absolutely nothing in common, plus has no idea of _what_ to introduce him as. He most definitely is not romantically inclined with him, all that connects them is sex and they both know that, yet they aren’t friends. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, even Marius and Cosette, _these_ are his friends and Grantaire most certainly is nothing like them. _Friends with benefits maybe,_ he considers but it somehow sounds wrong, like crappy rom-coms Courfeyrac likes and Joly with Marius secretly cry while watching, causing Musichetta and Cosette to perpetually roll their eyes. It sounds degrading and he respects Grantaire the way he respects everyone. He embraces and fights for equality, and in this _thing_ they have, whatever one may call it, he and Grantaire are equals. So he simply says “this is Grantaire.”

Combeferre and Feuilly immediately seem to take a like to him, Joly and Bossuet find him potentially amusing and soon the three of them are drinking together, Cosette secretly giggles at the way he mocks Marius good-naturedly. Enjolras sees the way Courfeyrac eyes him from his scruffy boots to the top of his messy black hair, and knowing Courfeyrac for almost two decades Enjolras can fully picture the ranking process that always goes through his best friend’s head. His raised eyebrow and the way he holds his drink shows his opinion for Enjolras’ taste: a round, shiny Ten, a golden star and a chocolate cookie on top. “Hello, Enjo’s sweetheart,” he coos, placing kisses on both of Grantaire’s unshaven cheeks, not failing to notice Enjolras’ menacing look which reads _he’s mine_ from kilometers away. Grantaire seems slightly uncomfortable and Enjolras rushes to snort and add “he’s not my _sweetheart_. Grantaire and I are just…” their eyes meet, “he helped me once with an essay. He makes great coffee.”

Courfeyrac raises his eye as Grantaire rushes to nod even though his sarcastic expression shouts _very well you really did fuck this up, Apollo_ and they both know that Courfeyrac has not bought a single word.

Grantaire has a drink, then another yet Enjolras can’t keep feeling disapproving. Grantaire is amazing, he immediately grows on his friends and he’s brilliant and intelligent, he hears him chatting with them loudly to be heard over the maddening beat of the music, he knows so many things as he debates _philosophy_ of all things with Combeferre and Feuilly in a fucking bar, he’s having fun with Joly and Bossuet and he doesn’t look dark and distant like some other times. Enjolras’ chest tightens uncomfortably at the realization that he can’t take his eyes away from Grantaire. The way he tilts his head back when he laughs, the colorful disco lights on his pale skin and dark hair, the way his black t-shirt hangs on all the right places, exposing all his colorful tattoos and his leather pants _oh his leather pants…_

Grantaire thanks him for inviting him over, even though he’d been hesitant and uncertain at first. Enjolras encourages him to text his flatmates to join them just for his sake, to make Grantaire feel even more at ease, though Enjolras will never forget the several levels of embarrassment in front of them all that hungover morning. Jehan, Éponine and Bahorel the name of whom he soon learns, arrive shortly after, dressed in leather and baggy sweaters –all of them-, boots –Bahorel and Éponine- and heels –it turns out to be Jehan, after all. Bahorel immediately starts drinking and saying loud jokes and hitting Marius friendly on the back, causing him to choke on his drinks and half bend on the table, quite freaked out. Éponine hits it off with Musichetta and Bossuet and starts having a challenging debate of some sort with Combeferre and Feuilly who seem entirely too brave in Enjolras’ opinion, as for Jehan he follows Courfeyrac on the dance floor and Enjolras eyes them suspiciously as Jehan swirls around in lithe, rather disturbing movements that remind Enjolras of some pagan ritual.

It completely startles him when he feels Grantaire’s alcohol breath brushing warmly against his ear, causing him to shiver. His lips barely touch his lobe and he whispers “Wanna dance?”

Whoever knows Enjolras will whole-heartedly assure you that under no circumstances should the revolutionary activist attempt to dance or move his body at any kind of synchronization to music, and Enjolras himself hates dancing which means that so far they’ve never had any problems –as they’ve had, for instance, with Bossuet who doesn’t hate dancing at all. Right now however nobody’s watching and Grantaire seems to be the only person in the world for him which is wrong and Enjolras _knows_ he shouldn’t really feel like that, this wasn’t what he settled in for but right now he doesn’t care because he’s following Grantaire to the dance floor and the man’s arms are thrown around his thin waist, pulling him closer, their bodies rubbing together, his breath of smoke and whiskey brushing against his neck and damn he’s _perfect,_ the disco lights going on and off and making his eyes even bluer and his dark hair even wilder, the loud music is beating all through their bodies and Grantaire is swaying his hips to the rhythm in a way he couldn’t even dream of, he didn’t bloody know that Grantaire could dance like sheer fucking sex, holding him close and applying just the right pressure, his hands resting on the small of Enjolras’ back and he looks lost in the music but Enjolras himself feels too lost in _him_ and why the fuck is this happening, this _shouldn’t_ be happening but maybe it’s just the need swelling in his pants that urges him to feel like that and to follow Grantaire outside in the piercing cold, in the alleyway on the back of the bar, and to allow him –almost beg him- to shove him back against the wall, pin his wrists back on the cold cement and kiss him senseless.

And then Grantaire’s gloveless hand is pressed against his chest above his racing heart, moving lower and deftly, despite his drunkenness, unbuttoning Enjolras’ jeans, causing his breath to hitch on his throat. On the next second his cock is wrapped inside Grantaire’s fist, sheltered by the murderous cold air piercing his skin, and Grantaire is stroking him quickly, with no apparent rhythm. It’s desperate and Enjolras knows it has to be otherwise his dick will probably fall off from the cold yet he can’t think about it right now, too busy struggling not to scream, because they are on the fucking _street_ with all of his friends inside the bar near them but “Fuck Grantaire your _hands,”_ and Grantaire does indeed look proud of himself, and his hands continue fucking Enjolras until he gasps for breath and it is his mouth that shuts him up from moaning his lungs out, clumsy and sloppy and wet all over Enjolras’ lips.

He comes in Grantaire’s hand seeing stars in the dead of the night from the wild orgasm that shakes his body. Grantaire is wheezing together with him, the whole thing just as intense for the both of them even though he was the one doing all the job. They help each other clean with a packet of tissues, hands trembling and when Enjolras eventually catches his breath Grantaire’s rough hands cup his neck so intimately that Enjolras feels startled, almost scared, and his breath brushes warmly against his ear. “God Apollo, you look gorgeous like this.”

It’s the first time they say anything of that sort to each other, and Enjolras really doesn’t know how he feels about this, apart from painfully, maddeningly dizzy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want another chance. Let’s start this from the very beginning. Imagine me walking in the coffee shop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me long enough but I'm still feeling sick. So. This is it. Predictable enough, right? Right. Thank you all so much for reading!  
> uwu  
> WARNING: Lingerie. I don't know what got me, so please be warned if this does not happen to be your thing  
> P.S. The Jehan headcanon with the skulls and the glitter is from laurencombeferre's tumblr and I just realized that this has almost become a CANON thing because it's amazing and all her headcanons are amazing <3

Enjolras had never paid any attention to the tree standing in the middle of their minimalistic living room. Combeferre had always been the one to decorate it in perfect coordination, like he did every time, red and gold balls and ornaments and perfectly proportioned yellow bulbs wrapped around the branches, a star standing straight on top. Enjolras was always too busy for that but Courfeyrac would never lose a chance to join in and leave his signature, leaving the tree not with skulls and pink feathers that Jehan, Bahorel and Éponine’s tree sported –though Enjolras unexpectedly enough did find that one cozy- but still with extensive amounts of glitter and way too much mistletoe.  
  
The mistletoe. Oh, the mistletoe. _That_ Enjolras had never paid any attention to, apart from the obligatory effort to not be caught in moments when Courfeyrac tried to corner all of their friends underneath of it. And now here he is, kissing a man he only met a couple of weeks ago, a man with whom he’s shared things more intimate than with anyone in his life yet he doesn’t even know his favorite food, the way he takes his coffee or his actual age. Just as much as they despise clichés they’re now kissing under the fucking mistletoe, only not very conventionally but with more tongue and less clothes than what the customs suggest. Grantaire is, ironically enough in a Santa’s hat, his F**K XMAS knitted sweater tossed somewhere under the tree and that’s where they’re lying, on the carpet near the presents and by the fireplace which is crackling merrily, its light combined with that coming from the tree, reflecting on both of their half-naked bodies as they taste each other hungrily, letting small humming noises, tugging on curly hair and nipping on lips until they draw blood.  
  
Enjolras’ hands now feel experienced, nails waxing poetic across Grantaire’s smooth, hot back, just between his shoulderblades and down to the curve of his waist, then across his biceps over the colorful tattoos that hug his arms. Then they reach for Grantaire’s zipper and his heart hitches on his throat because it turns out that he isn’t the only one taking daring decisions that night and that does make him feel much more comfortable indeed. “No underwear,” he hears his own raspy voice exclaiming.  
  
Grantaire’s smirk is satanic, to say the least, and the effect of the lights on half of his face makes him look almost breathtaking. “I was on a rush, you see,” he replies hoarsely. “A certain customer was in immediate need of my _services._ ”

“How needy of him,” Enjolras heaves a small breath, his fingers curling around Grantaire’s hard cock.  
  
“Very needy indeed,” Grantaire can only murmur, his own fingers having reached Enjolras’ pants and unzipping them. “Some people can never be satisfied. It’s the drawbacks of the slacker career.”  
  
“Oh but that’s not true,” whispers Enjolras, nibbling on Grantaire’s ear lobe and eliciting a moan which is really half a whimper. “You are pretty good at your job, you know.”  
  
He feels Grantaire’s fingers brushing across the satin and he can’t help but feeling a pang of shame, wondering what exactly he had been thinking, but then he sees Grantaire’s shocked, hungry expression, his dilated pupils and the flush spreading all over his skin and he relaxes. Nobody’s going to know about it, only Grantaire and _that’s_ what Grantaire is here about, that’s what they do.  
  
“Lingerie?” he traces his tongue across his lips slowly, like a predator preparing himself for his pray only funnily enough, it’s Enjolras who feels like the predator as well and he appreciates equality in this non-relationship –in whatever it is that they have.  
  
“I thought you’d like it,” he mutters and Grantaire bites his lower lip softly, as if he’s trying not to scream.  
  
“Fucking hell and Merlin’s hanging left candy cane,” he breathes, “you’ll be the fucking death of me.”  
  
Enjolras is feeling a bit out of his depth because it’s red and it’s _satin_ and it feels enormously ridiculous and he doesn’t know what the fuck got him and it would really, really help if any of Grantaire’s words made any sense at all. “So you don’t like it?” he asks, pulling a bit away from his touch, puzzled and ashamed.  
  
“Come here, you fucking idiot,” growls Grantaire through gritted teeth, grabbing his pale ass and pulling him to a hot kiss and somehow his words sound much more tender than they should, considering that in a few minutes Enjolras is fucking him hard against the carpet, marks from the friction scraping his knees and elbows but he doesn’t seem to mind, or at least his loud moans indicate so.  
  
They’re breathing heavily against the carpet after that, covered in sweat despite the freezing weather outside.  
  
Grantaire eventually gets up and gathers his clothes and Enjolras really admires him because right now he can’t move a single muscle, feeling so blissful and heavy and calm. He’s left lying there catching his breath and Grantaire keeps quiet as he walks away, almost careful not to disturb the silence.  
  
It’s only after five minutes or five centuries that there is a knock on the door and Enjolras groans, considering to pretend that no one’s there until Combeferre returns, but eventually he drags his sore muscles off the carpet and heads to the door. It’s Grantaire, and he’s got snowflakes all over his face.  
  
“It’s up to my knees,” he shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “I can’t go anywhere. Sorry.”  
  
Sleeping isn’t easy this time, both of them completely sober and really worn. Grantaire suggests to sleep on the couch but there is no way Enjolras is letting him and there is a half-hearted suggestion of Enjolras abandoning the warmth and comfort of his own bed and using the couch, which inevitably leads them both to sharing his entirely too spacious and soft double mattress. And sleeping really isn’t easy this time. They try their best not to get in each other’s private space and the pretend they don’t have to share the same covers and the same bedroom for a night, Enjolras is trying to lie straight and away from Grantaire who dozes off quickly after a hard day at work but Enjolras can’t sleep, despite his tiredness occurred from planning and working and studying all day, and then having the most glorious sex he could ever dream of. He hears the door of the apartment opening twice and Combeferre returning from his shift at the hospital, later Courfeyrac from some date. He hears the latter shuffling a bit in the kitchen and playing Angry Birds on his phone, getting a little more passionate than necessary before falling asleep and then silence. Silence, and nothing to disturb it but Grantaire’s rhythmical, peaceful breathing. He can only be thankful that Combeferre and Courfeyrac both have classes earlier than him the following morning, so if Courfeyrac doesn’t decide to burst into his room in leopard underwear in 6AM to perform some odd dancing number, then Grantaire might have a chance to sneak away in the morning without them noticing. He turns his head to stare at the sleeping form in the darkness of the room. Despite the internal heating the apartment is inevitably still cold, and Grantaire is only in a huge ratty t-shirt and an old pair of sweatpants that both belong to Enjolras. With a pang in his chest he notes that the no sharing clothes rules has been broken, but it is an emergency, nobody could ever assume that they were getting snowed in just after having some sex involving ridiculous seasonal lingerie –now that the heat of the moment is over Enjolras cringes with embarrassment. Grantaire’s form is curled with his portion of the covers wrapped tightly around his half-naked body, trying to protect himself from the cold and, despite his overall sarcastic and mocking nature, seeming determined to respect Enjolras and his privacy even while asleep.  
  
Enjolras doesn’t remember falling asleep but apparently he does at some point, because he remembers waking up in a state of pure and utter bliss, a tangle of limbs and hair, his arms wrapped around Grantaire’s chest, his hands resting against his heart and his face buried in the man’s shoulders. Grantaire’s feet are cold and pressed against Enjolras’ ankles, exposed as his own sweatpants have rolled up beneath the sheets and it is so impossibly warm, his own breath creating a cozy space between Enjolras’ face and Grantaire’s nape. He smells of smoke and coffee and oranges, for some weird reason, and also as Enjolras realizes half in horror, he smells of morning and sex and _Grantaire_ which is such a unique feeling and it sends a fuzzy feeling down his stomach.  
  
Grantaire is stirring when Enjolras fully wakes up and realizes that huddling for warmth probably wasn’t the best of ideas. Quite reluctantly he unwraps his arms from around the warm body and pulls away. Grantaire is facing him and he looks so soft despite the scruff on his face, _almost cute_ Enjolras thinks and shudders at the absolute ridiculousness of the word he’s never used before in his life. There is the tiniest of smiles as the man rolls around to face him, rubbing his blue eyes with the bridges of his hands, the usually sarcastic smile now sheepish, almost apologetic. “G’morning,” he says and Enjolras stretches his legs beneath the covers before letting a small morning whimper. “’Mornng,” he replies and maybe it is because he wasn’t properly woken up yet but for less than a second his insides flutter and he feels the urge to wrap his arms around Grantaire’s waist again and pull him for a chaste kiss unlike all the passionate, greedy ones they’ve shared during the past few days, stroke those cheeks and maybe just hold his hand under the covers, just for a while, but everything feels entirely too wrong and he knows he shouldn’t be feeling that way and thankfully enough it soon passes and he isn’t thinking anymore of the image of waking like that next to Grantaire again and again, in mornings to come after that, no he absolutely is not.  
  
It’s nice to be comfortable like that, no strings attached even when sleeping together, each of them doing their own thing, having time for themselves yet suddenly Enjolras’ life feels rather empty sometimes, despite the presence of two flatmates who also happen to be his best friend ever since he remembers himself, his bed is going to feel way too big and cold and spacious when Grantaire feels and he’s left alone again and he hates those thoughts but he can’t prevent himself from having them anymore, they keep coming back and he tries, he really does but _Grantaire in his t-shirt_ and _Grantaire in his bathroom_ and _Grantaire walking around his apartment, barefoot, careful and gentle_ and the best of things _Grantaire making coffee and baking shit with ingredients Enjolras didn’t even know they kept in the kitchen._  
  
The snow still makes it impossible for the man to leave just yet and this time Enjolras has to try not to look relieved when they find out. He only faintly wonders where Combeferre and Courfeyrac might be with all this unexpected snow outside.  
  
They shower together. It is slow and wonderful and for once, even if it seems like the perfect occasion they don’t have sex. Their muscles ache from last night on the floor, their backs tingling with scratches and their throats traced with purplish marks, and the hot water does an excellent job easing the pain and helping them untense. They don’t even need to speak. It’s something they share with each other, this silence and the pouring water against the piles, their naked, wet bodies pressed against each other, tongues exploring lazily, hair wet and dripping on their shoulders and the scent of Courfeyrac’s tacky peppermint shower gel lingering in the steamy air they breathe.  
  
He remembers they said no breakfast but that probably went for eating breakfast together, not for Grantaire doing what he could do best with his hands (apart from Enjolras) in the kitchen, covered in flour and sugar and dark chocolate. Coffee is always a part of it and Enjolras, a heavily addicted caffeine-maniac could have never imagined that its making can be such a bloody _talent._  
  
They end up half-climbed on the kitchen counter, covered in flour and chocolate as the result of what began with Grantaire trying to ‘teach’ Enjolras to bake cookies but cookies are already being baked in the oven so task accomplished and they’re kissing each other breathless and no one can stop them as he slides his hand beneath the t-shirt Grantaire’s wearing and rests it over the warm flesh of his waist…  
  
Or at least he thinks that no one can stop them because he keeps forgetting that he lives together with the biggest cockblocker in the entire universe which means that even when Courfeyrac is seemingly snowed out in the morning, he’ll eventually find a magic way to appear out of nowhere in their kitchen –together with Combeferre- and find them ready to reach the point of no return.  
  
“I smell cookieee!” he cries, completely overshadowing the cookie monster and rightfully claiming his way to the top (of Tom Hiddleston’s lap) “Meee cookie!” His eyes then inevitably fall on Enjolras and Grantaire, who have stopped kissing, legs wrapped around each other and eyes wide open in shock and Courfeyrac fully goes into full adult mode. “Oh.” He says slowly. “ _Oh._ Of course! This is highly unsanitary but Joly isn’t here and you know it’s fine by me, I don’t mind eating the cookies anyway with whatever fluids they may be garnished with.” And turning to Grantaire, “By the way, I love your tattoos…”  
  
“Thanks,” murmurs the man with a faint, composed smile.  
  
“Hello Grantaire,” murmurs Combeferre from the door, looking slightly more uncomfortable than his friend. “Courfeyrac…”  
  
“Oh yes, of course,” beams Courfeyrac widely, “I’ll leave you enjoy true love, kids! Stay safe!” And with that Combeferre practically drags him out of the kitchen and leaves the two of them alone, having lost the mood for every sort of intimate activities.  
  
“I’m sorry,” exhales Enjolras when his friends are out of sight. “He gets like that… sometimes.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” says Grantaire. “You’ve seen mine. Mine are worse.”  
  
“They aren’t,” Enjolras shakes his head. “You don’t know Courfeyrac, you haven’t seen him on sugar overdose.”  
  
“You’re right,” the brunet nods. “Maybe I haven’t.”  
  
“Don’t worry about his words. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. I mean, you really don’t have to worry, this isn’t _true love_ or some other ridiculous thing. I’m not asking anything of you or trying to tie you down and never let you go and you’re not expecting anything from me, this is just…”  
  
“Sex.”  
  
“I know!” he beams hesitantly, “good, great sex, don’t get me wrong! We’re grown up people, we don’t have to ruin it by forcing it to be anything more.”  
  
“Of course,” Grantaire is nodding slightly more fiercely than Enjolras would expect and his voice sounds oddly hoarse and cheerful. “This doesn’t have to be anything more.”  
  
Enjolras feels encouraged. “I mean, you’re great, but I’m really intrigued by the mystery of hardly knowing anything about you, of simply getting to know you like that… The way we do this, our… arrangement, it’s so freeing…”  
  
“I know,” smiles Grantaire, a smile which doesn’t quite reach his eyes and Enjolras smiles back before reaching closer to press his lips on Grantaire’s. The man kisses him back only something does not feel entirely too right, not on Enjolras’ lips, not in his chest.  
  
Grantaire slowly pulls away and he’s smiling distantly. Enjolras thinks he’s never looked more beautiful, more exposed and uncovered before him, his expression softened and his blue eyes so meaningful and at the same time mysteriously shutting him out. “Stay,” he hears himself saying. “I don’t have to go to class until later and we can just be lazy for a while…”  
  
“Don’t let Combeferre hear you say you want to be lazy,” Grantaire grins distantly. “He’ll think you have a fever.” He checks the oven for the cookies. “Listen, I can’t really stay,” he raises his shoulders. “I promised Éponine I’d hang out with her brother during her morning shift.”  
  
“Oh,” Enjolras sounds disappointed. “Sure, go ahead. We’ll talk soon.”  
  
Grantaire nods only he doesn’t seem to be wholly _here._ “Soon.”  
  
“Call me.” Enjolras says, and his voice comes out suspiciously uncertain, almost insecure.  
  
There is silence for a while. “Sure,” mutters Grantaire before taking a step forward and stepping a little on his toes, pressing his lips softly on Enjolras’ cheek with a tenderness that they’ve never experienced before and for less than a second Enjolras feels his breath catching on his throat. Then Grantaire turns around and walks out of the kitchen.  
  
Enjolras is left alone and something feels out of place. He can feel Combeferre’s piercing glance on his skin while Courfeyrac ravishes the cookies. When he returns to his bedroom the bed is still as they left it and it smells of smoke and Grantaire. The bathroom still smells of peppermint shower gel and he can feel the steam in the air. When Combeferre asks him if everything’s alright he replies that of course it is.  
  
Only for once, it isn’t.

*

 **[From: Enjolras, 18:29] You didn’t call.**  
  
[From: R, 18:32] u didn’t come to the coffee shop.  
  
[From: Enjolras, 18:35] Sorry, I’ve been really busy.  
  
[From: R, 18:36] i know, been busy too.  
  
[From: Enjolras, 18:38] Courfeyrac is having a party on Christmas Eve at our place.  
  
[From: Enjolras, 18:39] Last time we found a goat in the bathroom. But I don’t think it’s happening again.  
  
[From: Enjolras, 18:40] Maybe you could join us. If you have nothing better to do, I mean. It will be nice to have you there :) It will make things slightly more normal.  
  
[From: R, 18:42] if u r turning to me for normal u must be rly desperate.  
  
[From: R, 18:45] i have plans with ep, ok? sorry  
  
[From: Enjolras, 18:47] It’s alright, have fun! Merry Christmas if I don’t see you until then.  
  
[From: R, 18:48] bah humbug  
  
Grantaire doesn’t call him back and Enjolras doesn’t visit the coffee shop until Christmas Eve. He knows that things have gone wrong, out of hand, far away from what he’d expected and now he feels lost because it hurts to not have Grantaire here and it hurts to not know what to do about it and most of all it hurts to _realize_ all that because it’s so stupid that it happened that way and it shouldn’t have happened that way, it shouldn’t… He pretends that everything’s fine but he knows that Courfeyrac knows and he knows that Combeferre knows and when Combeferre brings him a cup of coffee –which is good yet nowhere as good as Grantaire’s- and takes a seat opposite him he knows he can’t talk about it.  
  
“Have you invited him to the party?”  
  
“I have. He has other plans.”  
  
There is silence as Combeferre takes a slow sip from his coffee. “I’m sorry.”  
  
There is no point pretending. “So am I.”  
  
A pause. “Does he know how you feel?”  
  
Another pause. “I don’t even know how I feel.”  
  
“I guess you never expected feeling like that.”  
  
“Lucky guess.”  
  
“I know. Lucky me.” Enjolras is staring away from his best friend, his fingers wrapped together in fists, resting on his knees. It’s Combeferre who breaks the silence, leaning a bit forward and taking off his glasses, cleaning them on the wool of his jumper. “It seems to me that all you need to do is feel free and allow yourself to feel what’s started happening inside you.”  
  
“Nothing’s happening inside me, don’t be ridiculous,” snorts Enjolras, still avoiding Combeferre’s glance.  
  
“You don’t have to complicate things, Enjolras.”  
  
“They’re already complicated. They’re going to get even more if this… if this develops.”  
  
Combeferre looks at him with concern but says nothing. Enjolras would rather avoid his warm, chocolate eyes right now.

*

Courfeyrac’s Christmas parties always mean the ugliest Christmas sweaters that can exist in one’s imagination, garish decorations, extremely loud, tacky ‘90s music and a hella lot of alcohol. They’re not exactly Enjolras’ thing but he loves his friends and he loves spending time with them even when Christmas is not exactly his thing either.  
  
They’re all dancing and laughing and drinking at the lights of the Christmas tree and those ridiculous disco lights Bossuet has brought, and he sits in his favorite armchair in the corner, going through the last of his notes since he really doesn’t feel like doing anything else but then Courfeyrac comes to his rescue and forces him up because “it’s fucking Christmas Eve and you ARE GOING to have fun,” so he ends up dancing awkwardly with Joly but he really does love Joly and his good humour so they laugh at their ridiculous figures and he almost forgets about the feeling of tightness in his chest, but just then someone taps his shoulder and he knows he’s fucked even before he turns around.  
  
It’s Éponine in a puffy black dress and army boots, and saying she doesn’t look happy would be an understatement. “What are you doing here?” is the first thing that comes to his mind and only after saying it he realizes that he’s sound more rude than he’d ever intend to. Her dark eyes narrow dangerously.  
  
“Courfeyrac invited us, Blondie.”  
  
 _Us?_ Enjolras looks around and notices Jehan dancing in the middle of the room with Courfeyrac and Bahorel abusing the alcohol stash together with Joly and Bossuet. His heart skips a beat but Grantaire is nowhere to be seen. “Is he coming later?” he asks even more stupidly and she throws her eyes on the ceiling in exasperation.  
  
“Does he have a reason?”  
  
“I want him here,” Enjolras says honestly, feeling his cheeks burning with the heat of the room and the dance and the wine he never really signed up for.  
  
“Great job showing it,” she snorts sarcastically.  
  
Enjolras has started getting angry because honestly, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s done wrong to deserve being told off even after going through an emotional riot he wasn’t really able to handle. “In fact I _told him_ I wanted him here!”  
  
“He’s not your bloody whore, Enjolras,” she says quietly and close enough to him that he’s able to feel her breath on his skin. “You’ve been using him without even knowing anything about him for a casual fuck every now and then, without ever really caring for his feelings!”  
  
“This was a deal between us…”  
  
“A deal my ass!” she cackles and Enjolras fears that she’ll drop the drink she’s holding on the carpet. “This was never a deal, butthead. He’s worshipped you ever since he first saw your stupid pretty face, without knowing anything for you. He’d do anything for you and you took advantage of it.”  
  
“I would never… I didn’t want to complicate things, I don’t know how it works!” he shouts, completely bewildered and upset. “I… I wanted him in my life yet I didn’t want to fuck this up, okay?”  
  
“Well you failed. You fucked this up because you were too afraid of feeling something for him when he was willing to give everything to you. And now,” she hisses, poking him on the chest with a finger with bitten purple nails, “now you’re going to fix it.”

*

Most of his friends don’t notice him bursting out of the kitchen and grabbing his coat and scarf, his cheeks flushed and his hair disheveled. Only Jehan and Courfeyrac see him from the middle of the room where they’re sharing a bottle of wine and he knows in their eyes that they both know, and for once Courfeyrac is serious and his smile encouraging and soft. Even Éponine winks at him behind her cigarette and Combeferre walks him to the door, squeezing his arm. “Wrap your scarf tightly around you, it’s freezing outside,” he mutters with a faint smile. “Go and do what you must,” he whispers and they hug. Combeferre smells reassuringly, of chocolate and soap and old books. “Merry Christmas,” he says and Enjolras cracks up a smile, his heart already on his throat.  
  
“Merry Christmas, Ferre.”  
  
The streets are empty and frozen, the houses, restaurants and bars full of colorful bright Christmas lights and he walks quickly, his feet leading him to the subway and then on Grantaire’s street without even being able to control himself. He’s wrapped his coat tightly around him yet he can’t feel his nose and cheeks from the cold and his heart is ready to explode out of his chest. Finally he’s there, panting and releasing frozen clouds of smoke through his lips. He rings the bell and waits, holding the still warm packet securely in his hands.  
  
Grantaire appears on the doorway. He looks tired and unkempt, cheeks unshaven and dark circles under his eyes. His dark curls are wild and sticking to all different directions and the loose jumper he’s wearing has seen better days. The only pop of color is coming from a pair of fluffy green and red socks that look like a present from Jehan and as he looks like that, small and dark and tired, so different from his usual loud, obnoxious self, all that Enjolras wants is to wrap his arms around him and hold him until the morning, curled up in the horrid mattress Grantaire uses as a bed, all the tacky lights he’s hated through the whole month fucking shining around them. “Hey,” he says, realizing his teeth are chattering.  
  
“Fuck Enjolras, what are you doing here?” Grantaire sighs slowly. “Get inside, you’ll catch your death out there.”  
  
It takes a moment for Enjolras to accept the invitation and follow Grantaire inside. The lights of the Christmas tree are on and Enjolras can almost smell the whiskey Grantaire has been drinking in the air. The man doesn’t speak. Enjolras turns around to face him. “You never really had plans with Éponine, did you?” he mutters.  
  
“No,” Grantaire clears his throat, a small bitter smile appearing on his face. “No, I hadn’t.” His face soon fills with shock. “Fuck, don’t tell me she came over to give you shit.”  
  
“No, don’t worry,” Enjolras half-lies, “Courfeyrac invited her.”  
  
“Um, do you want anything to drink?” asks Grantaire, as if it’s completely normal for Enjolras to show up out of nowhere on his doorsteps in three AM on Christmas Eve. Enjolras notices his hands are shaking slightly as he makes his way to the alcohol stash and browses. “Wine maybe? What I have is really cheap, I drank all of Bahorel’s gift yesterday.  
  
“Don’t worry, I don’t need anything,” Enjolras hears himself blurting out. “I just came to say I’m sorry.”  
  
Grantaire shuts his eyes and slowly exhales. “You don’t have to do this, Enjolras.”  
  
“No listen,” Enjolras says fervently, walking forward and handing the paper bag he had been holding to Grantaire. “I brought you breakfast.”  
  
“It’s 3AM,” a breathless and particularly confused Grantaire points out matter-of-factly.  
  
“And why should that mean you can’t have breakfast?” Enjolras frowns slightly. “This is oppressive! What’s the point in breakfast if we don’t have the right to eat it whenever the fuck we want?”  
  
“Right,” Grantaire nods zealously. “Of course, just…” he opens the paper bag and a scent of freshly baked cookies and some chocolate pie fill the air. “Did you make those yourself?”  
  
“Yes. I mean no, the cookies are a remainder of those you made, you never stayed to eat them. And I made the chocolate pie together with Combeferre for Courfeyrac’s party, it turned out to be rather good, I daresay,” he grins proudly.  
  
“This surely is breakfast material,” murmurs Grantaire, “though I usually have just a coffee.”  
  
“You once said that coffee doesn’t count as breakfast. And I’d never dare make _you_ coffee.”  
  
“Thank you, Enjolras, I can really use some tasty stuff even though it’s some I’ve made myself,” Grantaire eventually smiles in an almost tender manner which at the same time has a hint of his usual, mischievous grin. He’s holding the paper bag close to him as if some chocolate baked goodies are something he holds dear to his heart. “But wasn’t breakfast against the rules?”  
  
Enjolras snorts. “Rules are made to be broken.”  
  
Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “You’re sexy when you’re rebellious.”  
  
“I’m having an emotional moment over here Grantaire, please keep the sexy out of it,” protests Enjolras, making a step closer to him as Grantaire’s blue eyes are filled with wonder. “I want another chance. Let’s start this from the very beginning. Imagine me walking in the coffee shop.”  
  
“Apollo…”  
  
“Do as I say! Imagine the kitschy papercup tree and all the cinnamon shit I hate and the customers with the huge bags and Santa Baby playing on the background with all the consumerist messages that make the hair stand up on the back of my neck.” Enjolras’ hands come to wrap around Grantaire’s wrists and the dark-haired man slowly shuts his eyes, his breath hitching on his throat. “You see me and you say a horrible pickup line. Grantaire, the tackiest you’ve got,” he softly shakes his wrists. “Say a pickup line.”  
  
Grantaire opens his eyes. “I like my men like I like my coffee,” he murmurs, a bit shaky and utterly confused.  
  
“Dark and strong?” Enjolras plays along.  
  
Grantaire chuckles hoarsely. “A hot shock to the lap.”  
  
“This went well,” says Enjolras in a soothing voice, cracking a smile as his hands start moving slowly from Grantaire’s wrists to stroke the back of his hands and meet with the barista’s cold palms. “Now let me take you on a date, Grantaire.”  
  
“Enjolras, what the fuck are you doing?” Grantaire interrupts with a croak but Enjolras doesn’t stop.  
  
“Give me another chance to start over, R. Let me ask you on a date like I should have done from the very beginning.”  
  
“Ask me on a date,” Grantaire says shakily, absolutely clueless of what is happening but completely unwilling to make Enjolras stop.  
  
“Grantaire,” Enjolras asks seriously, “would you like to join me for a coffee sometime?”  
  
Grantaire can’t hold back a chuckle at the irony of the situation but it soon dissolves in a gasp as Enjolras’ fingers tangle with his own, callused ones, those beautiful hands Enjolras has never stopped dreaming of and they’re holding each other tightly. “Yes, Apollo. I would very much like to go out for a coffee with you.”  
  
“Then if I’m not hurrying things too much,” Enjolras whispers, satisfied with the answer he’s received, “because we _definitely_ haven’t hurried things at all in the past, can I say something?”  
  
They’re close now, so close than they’ve ever really been even if there’s a breath lingering between them, even if they’ve tasted and felt each other wildly and passionately in the past, in the most intimate of ways. They’ve never been so close that Enjolras can see all the pores on Grantaire’s nose, the tiny premature wrinkles around his eyes, the thick eyelashes and every detail on his chapped lips. He’s holding his hands tightly, rubbing the skin with his thumbs and his eyes are struggling to stay open because he needs to look at him, to look at Grantaire because Grantaire is beautiful in ways Enjolras never really saw. “Fire away,” breathes Grantaire and it’s almost agonized.  
  
Enjolras leans even closer, so that their lips are gently brushing against each other, and whispers “I think I love you.”  
  
He can feel a smile forming on Grantaire’s lips against his own and he sees his eyelids fluttering shut. “That’s good,” breathes Grantaire as his hands escape Enjolras’ grip and reach for the nape of his neck. “That’s very good indeed.”  
  
And then they’re kissing in the dim light of the Christmas tree, their hands for once getting to memorize things much different than flesh and heated skin, and it’s slow and soft and _beautiful,_ and as Enjolras holds the man tightly in his arms he knows that maybe, just _maybe_ , this Christmas can be different after all.


End file.
